The not-quite-human woman who sporadically fluctuates between genuinely pleasant and utterly deranged. No one knows who she is nor where she came from. Why the crushed egg in her hand? Your guess is as good as any.
“Looking into the mirror, are we?” Vexia asked the riotous crowd. “Lusting after our own beauty? Hungering after our own flesh? Life is a game, and here we wait with eager anticipation for our winnings. We wait politely. We wait as sheep to be sheered. We wait as cattle to be disassembled into bite-sized portions. Yet our winnings are as vapor. Though you gaze upon the rotting dreichod carcass as a blight upon your itty, bitty, pretty city, Enoch sees, as I do, an inevitable problem.”_
_Vexia caressed the tubes in her throat as she spoke. “I am speaking of an inevitable problem remedied only by an inevitable ascension. To your short-sighted delight, immortalium gushes through your veins. You live, and live, and live and live, and for what? When confined to the futile existence that you call your life, at what point does the life of a rotting dreichod carcass become your envy? Your appetite? The object of your desire?” Vexia laughed to herself. “The day will come when you will wish to end it all and join its side.”